


The Basement

by grace_of_baal



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Hannibal is Hannibal, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-03 19:31:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2881940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grace_of_baal/pseuds/grace_of_baal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hannibal is seriously injured at a crime scene, Will is more deeply shaken than he cares to admit. Hannibal was the solid pillar of support in Will’s life - severe and seemingly invincible, like marble. Things like this weren't supposed to happen.<br/>Hannibal, however, manages to find beauty in the incident, as he does always...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Basement

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write something like this for a while; it was a nice little break from my other multi-chapter story! I'm a real sucker for vulnerable!Hannibal, so this is a completely self-indulgent story. I hope you still like it.

It had started like any other investigation, with Hannibal following after Will to offer his insights. Apparently, the psychiatrist had an emptier schedule that day, and the murderer was operating near Baltimore. It wasn't an especially unusual man that they were hunting. His name was Perkins, and he was on a spree; he killed three in the past week, flaying the victims alive. Jack Crawford had intended to stop him before his next kill, but as Will feared, they were already too late. The FBI received a report earlier that day of another crime scene, very likely the work of Perkins. The body was in a now-abandoned residence in a suburb of Baltimore. 

The house was a modest family home, quite pleasant to look at if the overgrown garden and lawn were ignored. The FBI's research had led them here, where Perkins had lived before he lost his wife and child in a homicide several months back. The neighbours reported that there had been no visible activity in the property since then, despite the murder that had taken place. Still, Will was on high alert; Perkins was volatile, violent and had nothing left to lose. Will didn't expect to meet him here, but he didn't wish to take his chances, either.

He briefed Hannibal on the situation in the car. In truth, there was little room for Hannibal to contribute, but Will supposed an extra opinion wouldn't hurt. There was also the issue of Perkins' methods of selecting his victims, which at the moment seemed indiscriminate and random, some of them yet unidentified. Hannibal seemed to be mulling over this as they pulled over in front of the house. Jack and the forensics team arrived behind them in another car. Some techs were already there, processing the scene.

Will examined the body first upon entering the house. There was little difference between it and the previous ones he had already looked at, so he decided to search the house for other clues. Everything seemed untouched from when Perkins left the place, a fine layer of dust coating most of the surfaces. Will collected a few pieces of evidence from here and there while Hannibal shadowed him, making the occasional remark. They ended up back in the living room, where a rug that Will had previously not noticed caught his eye. Was there a small bump in the thing? Will squatted by the rug and pulled it back, and it revealed a trapdoor with a handle underneath. Wetting his lips, he pulled on the latch, and it swung open smoothly. Hannibal was peering over his shoulder, into the dimness below. 

"Hey, does anyone have a flashlight?" Will called to the forensics team, who were working in the room next door. 

"Yeah, here." Zeller tossed one to him through the doorway, which Will caught.

He clicked it on and shone the light down below. "I'm going to take a look down here, all right?" 

Jack, from supervising techs at the other end of the living room, said, "Okay, but be careful."

"I'll come with you," said Hannibal. Will nodded, and made his way down the narrow steps. He entered the room and found a light switch. Flipping it on had little effect as there was only a single dim bulb hanging from the ceiling. Hannibal stood next to Will, quiet and ponderous. The basement was absolutely still. Will took in some of its details - dusty shelves filled with household junk, a broken rocking horse in the corner, piles of damaged-looking books, debris littering the floor. However, moments later, Hannibal suddenly touched Will's arm. "Will. There's someone else here," he said in a low voice.

"What?" Will's hand went to his holster, his eyes scanning the shadowed room. Only then did he see the trail in the dust on the ground, clearly recently made by a human being.

"I smell blood."

Everything happened so quickly. Still, Will would remember it all in excruciating detail. No words were exchanged between him and Perkins, who emerged silently from around a corner as if he had been lying in wait. Will immediately drew and fired his gun; simultaneously, Perkins lunged for him, knife brandished. The bullet just barely found its mark, grazing the man's shoulder and only slightly altering his course, his momentum still carrying him to Will and Hannibal. It was too late for Will to take any further action in retaliation. Out of the blue, he saw Hannibal throw out his arm out in front of him, pushing him out of the way. Hannibal was strong and Will stumbled, his back hitting the wall behind him.

The man collided with Hannibal, who only grunted softly. It was then Jack and the forensics team came running down the stairs to the basement, probably having heard the gunfire. Will swiftly knelt to cuff Perkins, ignoring his cries of protest at Will tugging at his injured arm.

"Will! Are you all right?" Jack shouted, his own firearm drawn.

"Yeah, I'm fine," said Will, standing. "I got him." He looked to Hannibal, who seemed unnaturally still front of him. “Dr. Lecter…?” Hannibal gave him a strange look, his eyes meeting Will’s. Something was wrong; Will’s instincts were screaming at him. His heart began to pound hard, suffocating. He searched for Perkins' knife; it was on the ground, not far away. It shone with fresh crimson. _No_...

Hannibal opened his mouth as if to say something, but all he managed was a choked noise that vaguely resembled Will's name. He made a reaching motion towards the profiler, almost like a drowning man - his hand was coated with blood. Droplets of it had fallen to the floor at his feet.

_Oh, fuck, no._

He pitched forward into Will, whose legs nearly buckled under the psychiatrist’s full weight. Hannibal was holding onto Will in a desperate embrace, trembling with shock and pain; Will tried to right himself but he failed and fell on his backside, taking Hannibal down with him. His head was spinning, and the sensation only worsened when he felt the wet warmth on his own hands and clothes. He knew too well what it was.

“No, no, no, no…” Will pushed Hannibal off of him and turned him onto his back. Hannibal groaned, his eyes closing, consciousness already faltering. Panic surging within him in a nauseating torrent, Will pulled apart the coat, under which a damp stain was spreading on the fabric of the suit. It was difficult to see in the dark. Will pressed his hands to the spot, trying to hold back the blood, flowing far too fast - and only then did he hear Jack calling his name, and Hannibal's.

“Get an ambulance!” Beverly later told Will that it was him who had screamed this, but he had no recollection of it. All that filled his world at the moment had been Hannibal, whose breathing was beginning to come in laboured gasps, whose blood covered Will’s hands and forearms. Will tried to remember his first-and training, but nothing came to him. He couldn't think. He could hardly breathe, as if it was he who had just been cut open with a knife and was leaking blood all over the floor.

"Shit," Will heard Jack say, or was that Zeller? There were other murmurings from behind and above, but they seemed to be coming from a great distance away.

Will wasn't sure how much time had passed before Jack said, “Will, Will,” gently but firmly taking Will by the shoulders. “ _You have to let the paramedics through._ ”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” Will allowed the larger man to try to pull him to his feet, but Hannibal’s hand was clutching at his sleeves. Will wanted to take it in his own, to do something, _anything_ \- but he knew that it was well beyond his power to help now. Standing next to Jack, Will found that he was shaking, badly. He dimly heard Price telling Jack about another body they had just found in the opposite corner of the basement, a young man who had been gutted and skinned partway. The FBI's intrusion had interrupted the process, not that it made any difference for the victim whatsoever.

Hannibal was soon hidden by the paramedics surrounding him, and Will went up the stairs, leaving the basement without another word. He didn't know how long he had been standing on the front porch of the house for. What could have happened differently had he been more careful, more observant, more vigilant? Will ran through a dozen different scenarios in his head, but no matter what he tried to imagine, they all ended in the same way - with Hannibal bleeding out on the floor. What if he hadn't found the accursed basement? What if he had made Hannibal wait for him upstairs? It should have disturbed him that he was hardly thinking of the other victim, that young man. It didn't.

Someone put a hand on his back, making him jump. It was Beverly; he hadn't heard her approach.

“Will. You okay?” Her tone was apologetic.

 _No_ , he thought. _Not at all_. He nodded.

She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I should have -”

“No, it wasn't your fault,” Will shook his head. “I was reckless, and I should have been able to predict the killer would come back here…” _I shouldn't have let Hannibal join me. I should've known. Stupid, stupid, stupid._

“If I’m not accountable for what happened, neither are you.” Will answered her with silence. With a sigh, Beverly added, “They’re taking him to the hospital now. Jack said you can go with him…”

“No, it’s fine,” said Will. He looked down at his hands, caked with drying blood, Hannibal’s blood. _Fuck._ This was so _wrong_. _He_ should have been the one to take the knife. It should be his pain, his life hanging in balance. He didn't need a doctor's prognosis to know the injury was severe. Will wanted to vomit. It was only several minutes later, when Beverly had walked him over to a medic, that he realized that he had done exactly that.

* * *

In the halls of the FBI headquarters of Quantico, Will paced and paced. He was unable to sit down despite being obscenely tired; last night had been a long one. After two consecutive nightmares in one night, sleeping lost its appeal to Will, and he spent most of the early hours of the day lying in his bed, listening to the sound of his dogs' breathing. Closing his eyes would take him back to that basement, his own screaming echoing mockingly through it, and Hannibal, bleeding, the redness smeared everywhere.

Jack was coming towards Will from the other end of the hall. Will stopped and waited. Jack motioned for Will to sit next to him in a nearby chair and said, "Beverly told me you seemed a bit... distracted."

"I'm fine," Will said curtly.

"If you'd like a day or two off..."

"I told you, I'm _fine_."

Jack sighed deeply. "What happened to Hannibal..."

"Wasn't my fault. I've been told that already." Will was about to get up and leave.

"I take full responsibility."

"Don't. If it wasn't my fault, it wasn't yours either. I was the one standing next to him when it happened. I was the one who let him come down with me."

Jack compressed his lips together, then went on, "I hear he's probably going to be all right."

"They're not sure yet," Will said, "Still a possibility of complications. He's not out of the woods yet."

"Mm. How bad was it?"

"Pretty bad. He lost a lot of blood, and there was internal bleeding. They're going to operate on him one more time." Will knew all the details. He was aware how effortlessly these words came to him, but he no longer cared whether or not Jack noticed this.

Jack didn't comment but only nodded silently, his hands clasping on his lap. Then, looking straight into Will's face, he said, "I'm sorry, Will."

"Yeah, so am I." Will couldn't meet Jack's eyes. 

* * *

Will only visited the hospital once while Hannibal was unstable. It was unsettling to see him in a bed, not wearing a suit, immobile, hooked up to machines, an oxygen mask obscuring most of his face. That day, Will sat at the bedside for half an hour, his eyes not leaving Hannibal, as if transfixed by the sight.

“This wasn't supposed to happen. I'm sorry.” Will felt foolish for speaking to someone so deeply unconscious, but it seemed necessary. And then, after some hesitation, Will leaned forward and put his hand over Hannibal’s. He wasn't sure why he was doing this, but for some reason, it comforted him. _As if I'm the one who needs comforting_ , he thought bitterly.

He walked into someone as he left the room - it was Alana Bloom, carrying something in her arms. “Oh, hi, Will. Were you visiting?”

She looked so tired, drained. Will said, “Hi, Alana. Yeah, I was just heading out.” He peered at her. “What do you have there?”

Alana glanced down. “Just some journals and books… I thought Hannibal would probably want something to read if… when he wakes up.” Her voice was small.

“Ah.” Will wondered whether he ought to have brought something. Not that he had any idea of what he could have possibly provided Hannibal with that he didn't have already. "Alana, are you...?"

"I'm sorry, I just..." She was wiping at her eye with the back of her hand. "I'm so worried about him. He's... he's my friend."

Watching Alana go inside, Will asked himself if Hannibal was his friend as well. No, he was his psychiatrist, his doctor. They had maintained a professional relationship - or had they? Will tried to reason why he was so heavily impacted by Hannibal's injury. In theory, they were only doctor and patient, not... _friends_. _I don't even know him that well,_ thought Will. Perhaps the incident itself had simply been shocking to him; it wasn't often he encountered such violence in real time.

Will knew he was lying to himself. He had grown attached to Hannibal, despite common sense telling him that it was an absurd thing to let happen.

* * *

Will worked in a haze through the following week. He scarcely remembered anything from those several days, not even the details Jack gave him on Perkins' arrest and the identifications of the victims. They had picked up another case and Will struggled to concentrate on it. A cold pit of guilt and anxiety had formed in Will's gut, seeming to deny him of all other thoughts or feelings. 

He wanted to be rational, but he was failing. He couldn't leave Perkins' basement, and he dwelled there constantly. 

Jack and the others were clearly worried about him - and Hannibal - but they could do little but offer the same words of consolation.  

Then, one morning, Will received the news that Hannibal had regained consciousness. He was going to make a full recovery. The constricting sensation that had settled in Will's chest for the week left him, and he felt as though he could breathe easily for the first time in days. Will went to the hospital as soon as his schedule allowed him to. When he entered Hannibal's ward, the older man was asleep, his face seemingly restful. The monitors he was attached to beeped steadily. On the bedside stand, Will saw a small pile of gifts and cards, and again realized that he had forgotten to bring Hannibal something. Sighing, he pulled up a chair and sat.

Will was exhausted; he hadn't been sleeping well. The nightmares were still plaguing him every night, but he hoped that they would leave him now. Will intended to read for a while and wait until Hannibal stirred. But, before he could stop himself, he had nodded off, his book left forgotten in his lap. He didn't even wake when it slid off of him and fell to the polished floor with a _thunk_.

* * *

He was back in the basement again. He tried to scream but no voice would emerge, and he was frozen in place, unable to move, helpless. He could only watch Hannibal fall before his feet, blood pouring from his abdomen, as he had half a dozen times before in his previous dreams. This time, Perkins had time to finish him off. He straddled Hannibal, then turned to give Will a contorted grin before stabbing again and again and again -

“Will.” A familiar voice yanked Will away from the scene. Gasping, he forced his eyes open, having no idea where he was. “ _Will_.”

As his vision came into focus, he saw Hannibal in front of him, very close. Hannibal had been cradling Will’s face in his hands, and was retracting his touch now. Will couldn't help but fall back in the uncomfortable plastic chair he was in, taken aback. “Dr. Lecter…?”

The situation began to fall into place. Hannibal was sitting on the edge of his hospital bed, the IV lines still in his arms. He was very pale under his tousled hair, his angular features looking even more pronounced due to his gauntness. His gaze was locked on Will, concerned but not prying.

Will found the words at last. “I think… I was having a nightmare.”

Hannibal nodded. “It appeared so.” His voice was rough and accent somewhat thicker than normal, likely due to whatever medications he was still on. “You began to react quite violently to whatever you were dreaming about. I thought it would be best to wake you.”

Will put his face in his hands for a moment, massaging his eyelids and temples. His skin was damp with perspiration. “Sorry, I hadn't meant to fall asleep here.” Even injured and bed-ridden, Hannibal was the one caring for him. Shame surged up from within Will, and for a moment, he wished he was anywhere but here.

“Please, don’t apologize.” Hannibal pulled himself back into the bed with visible effort, leaning against the pillows propped up behind his back. Will saw him wince but said nothing, knowing he would prefer it that way. After a short silence, Hannibal said, “It’s good to have you here, Will.”

It only occurred to Will then that this was the first time Hannibal was seeing him since that day in Perkins' basement. It felt like a very long time ago to him. “I’m glad you’re going to be all right,” he said quietly.

“Likewise,” Hannibal murmured sleepily, his words hardly intelligible now. "Would you mind staying a while longer?"

"No," Will replied, but Hannibal was already falling asleep. Still, he stayed until the nurse came to usher him out. And somehow, he couldn't bring himself to visit Hannibal in the hospital again after that day. 

* * *

“You've been avoiding me.” Hannibal said this matter-of-factly, as a statement and not a question. He was perched on his desk and was toying with a pencil between his fingers.

“Yes.” Will decided to be honest. He hadn't spoken to Hannibal since his last hospital visit, which had been nearly two weeks ago. Hannibal, having been discharged several days prior, was not seeing patients yet, but he was apparently quite functional. He had lost some weight during his hospitalization but dressed immaculately as per usual, his image was no different than it used to be. Of course, he moved more slowly and with more caution than he used to, the injury needing more time to fully heal.

Will hadn't answered Hannibal's calls nor to messages from Hannibal relayed to him through Jack Crawford and Alana Bloom. But today, finally, he had given in, agreeing to meet Hannibal in his office for an informal conversation. 

Hannibal didn't seem at all offended or put off by Will's answer. “May I ask why?”

"I wanted to focus on work. There's been a new case."

"Are you implying that my presence is disruptive?"

"No. _Yes_." Frustrated, Will ground his teeth and turned away. Hannibal waited for him to continue in a patient silence. "It's because of what happened. You probably know it already, so I'm not sure why you're asking."

"Better to hear it from you than to make assumptions," Hannibal said mildly.

Will sat heavily on one of the office armchairs, leaning forward in it with his elbows on his knees. "I was _confused_. I was trying to sort through my thoughts and feelings..."

Hannibal's head cocked to one side. "Concerning me?"

"Well, yes," said Will at last.

The psychiatrist twisted around to reach something on his desk; a scalpel. His hand briefly went to his wound before he began to shave away at the pencil, and Will watched the slivers flutter down onto the desk like dead leaves. "Have you finished, then?"

"With?"

"Sorting through your thoughts and feelings concerning me."

Will took a deep breath. "Yes, I think so." Hannibal only inclined his head slightly in response. 

"That's very good." It was all he said. Will was thankful to him for not prodding further. 

"You didn't have to do that, you know."

"I'm not sure I follow," Hannibal said, still focused on sharpening his pencil. He finally finished with it and set it down on the desk, looking up at Will. 

"You didn't have to jump in between me and a serial killer and get _stabbed._ " 

Hannibal retorted, "You cannot expect me to have simply stood and watched you get attacked."

"Between the two of us, I'm the one with the FBI badge - and how did you think getting _yourself_ killed instead would be a good idea?" Will tried not to sound exasperated.

"Hardly 'killed', the wound was far from fatal -"

Will rolled his eyes, caring little about being rude by then. "That's besides the point, but I distinctly remember repeatedly hearing the words 'critical condition' -"

"I  _care_  about you, Will," Hannibal cut in, his tone of voice suddenly shifting, "and I don't want to see you hurt."

Will blinked, letting the words sink in. Finally, he replied, "...our sentiments are mutual, then."

In response, Hannibal stood from the desk and strode over to Will, purposefully. He stopped a mere foot or two from the armchair. Will instinctively also got to his feet, standing face-to-face with the psychiatrist. He couldn't recall being so close to Hannibal before, yet he felt no discomfort. Before he could stop himself, Will had put his hand forward, his fingers hovering over Hannibal's waistcoat where he knew the still-sutured knife wound would be. There was no logic to this. He didn't know what he was trying to do.

Will caught himself, saying, “I’m… I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking...” He began to pull his hand away, but Hannibal took him by the wrist before he could. Will, startled at the touch, looked up at the psychiatrist's face. It was almost as impassive as ever but Will thought he could detect a certain softness about it, around the eyes.

Hannibal placed Will’s hand on where the wound lay under the suit. Will hardly dared breathe, feeling Hannibal’s stomach press against his palm as he inhaled. For a split second, Will flashed back to Perkins' basement, where he had held his hand in the exact same spot, only with copious amounts of hot, hot blood soaking it. In the present, Will's mind was frantically attempting to pick apart this situation, asking questions, asking _why_ and _what_ and _how_ \- but Will didn't _want_ to think right now.

Hannibal released his grip on Will’s arm and proceeded to loosen his tie, flinging it with uncharacteristic carelessness over a nearby chair; it still seemed to Will like an elegant flourish. And Will, urged on by the action, fingered Hannibal’s topmost shirt button with his free hand. The psychiatrist made no move to stop him, but only watched intently from under his lids, his irises very dark in the low light. Will wondered for a moment if he would regret this later. What was _this_ exactly? What was it that he wanted to do?  _Stop thinking,_ something inside him whispered. Taking his own advice, he leaned in and kissed Hannibal softly on the lips. Hannibal, showing no sign of surprise, returned it with gentle force, and Will was acutely aware of Hannibal's fingers curling on his sleeves as their fronts pressed together.

Will wished the moment would last for longer, but Hannibal pulled away.

He said, “You wanted to see it.” He let his arms drop to his sides before untucking his shirt, as if opening himself up to the younger man. Without a word, Will unbuttoned the waistcoat, which Hannibal slid off his shoulders, and then the shirt buttons. Something like anticipation was building up within Will for reasons he couldn't fathom, his heart hammering in his chest painfully. Hannibal stood perfectly motionless, almost expectantly.

Will had never given much thought to Hannibal's life prior to his current practice. The man seemed so self-assured, so fully formed, that it almost felt unnecessary to dwell on such matters. But now, Will was overcome by curiosity. Hannibal was lean and wiry under all of his exquisite clothes, and hints of a harder past were peppered across his skin - a scar here, an imperfection or blemish there. Will wanted to take in every detail.

There was a particularly distinct mark near where the neck and shoulder met. It looked old - very pale and slightly raised, but Will could tell that it would have been a deep, ragged laceration. He asked quietly, “Where did you get this?” He traced the raised skin, as if to memorize its contours.

"When I was living in an orphanage as a child. I can tell you more, but perhaps another time," Hannibal said into Will's ear. Will's fingers travelled down to Hannibal's most recent injury, his fingertips running over the rough stitches still holding the wound together; it was an ugly thing. A pang of guilt and worry pierced him again - as if having sensed this, Hannibal lifted Will’s chin with his thumb, stroking it with what Will was sure was tenderness.

Will whispered, closing his eyes for a moment, "I was... afraid. That you'd be gone."

"And you hadn't felt that way before."

"No. Never like that, never that terrified." Will opened his eyes and met Hannibal's. Eye contact. So perilous to him at times, but now, it felt _right_.

Hannibal held the gaze. Something unspoken passed between them then, something Will couldn't pinpoint nor explain. "That wasn't my first brush with death. I'm fine," Hannibal said, "It's fine, Will. It's moments like those that make me feel truly alive." And Will believed him completely.

He cupped Will around the head and kissed him again, his fingers entwining in his hair. The younger man savoured the taste of the lips, the sensation of them locked in his. Hannibal was firm but not forceful, occasionally teasing. More than once, Will felt teeth nipping at his lips. Will responded in kind, his fingers clenching on Hannibal's opened shirt, and Hannibal rippled with pleasure. Will ran his hands down Hannibal's front and then around to his back, where he could feel the muscles underneath shifting powerfully under the fabric.

They broke apart, both breathing heavily, and Hannibal bent his head so that their foreheads were nearly touching, his steely hair brushing Will's lashes. Hannibal was smiling, the corners of his eyes crinkling and his teeth showing slightly; it left Will inexplicably warm and breathless. He rested his cheek on Hannibal's chest, feeling the steady _lub-dub_ of the beating heart inside. Hannibal was alive and well, and everything was going to be all right.

"Will..." Hannibal's voice rumbled from deep within his ribcage, like a cat's contented purr. He let the word hang for a moment as he caressed Will's jaw and neck. Every touch was a jolt of electricity to Will, but strangely pleasant. Then, Hannibal sighed, murmuring, "Unfortunately, I have another engagement soon." Will reluctantly let him pull back; Hannibal reached for his tie, putting it over an arm before beginning to button up his shirt. Will tasted bitter disappointment and he already missed the warmth in his arms.

"Oh, okay." It was all Will could muster and it embarrassed him greatly. His pulse was still as quick as a mouse's, the blood coursing through his veins with fevered heat. Will hoped that he appeared more composed than he felt, but there was no way of telling. At the same time, he knew that Hannibal wouldn't be judgmental, not to him.

Hannibal's eyebrow quirked up barely noticeably in amusement. He said, "Would you care to visit tonight? I wish to cook for you."

"Of course." Will answered with little hesitation.

"If you arrive a few minutes early, you can sous chef."

"I'll consider it."

"I'm taking that as a yes," Hannibal said, finishing buttoning and moving on to tying his tie. He smiled again, so unlike his usual small smirks.

Will grinned back fully without realizing it at first. He couldn't remember the last time he had done so genuinely, and he enjoyed the feeling. He knew that he wouldn't be seeing that basement again - at least not tonight. That was more than good enough for him. 

* * *

As he changed into a white cooking shirt, Hannibal turned and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He clicked his tongue, finding the wound most unsightly. The hospital staff had told him that it would heal relatively cleanly, but he trusted his own judgment far more than theirs - Hannibal thought another prominent scar for his collection was likely. He stretched gingerly, frowning when he pulled at the stitches. Still, he supposed that scars had a certain beautiful quality, and it was particularly true of this one.

He would rather not go through the process of getting it again, however. The injury was no laughing matter, even for him. Hannibal had miscalculated in that house, and it cost him. He had thought of at least half a dozen ways to disarm and dispatch Perkins, but he hadn't moved a muscle; it would be ill-advised to demonstrate his martial arts prowess to Will Graham and the FBI. Still, he could have saved Will without hurting himself in the process. Getting nearly eviscerated had been somewhat outside of his original plans, and so had spending nearly two weeks in the hospital.

Hannibal was curious what would happen if he let himself lose control, so he had. He had been pleasantly surprised by his own actions - he remembered falling into Will, holding onto him, as if it would save him from his wound. Even as his body reeled from the injury and began to shut down its operations, Hannibal had focused on one thing only, and that was Will Graham. Will's face as he realized what had happened, the touch of Will's hands slick with his blood, Will's voice calling his name in desperation. 

Those moments in the basement would remain with Hannibal for a very long time. 

He had been impulsive. One misstep could easily have killed him. Had the knife gone in an inch higher, had it been pushed in any further... But Hannibal was no stranger to acting quickly and with precision. He manoeuvred himself to take the knife at a specific point, quite aware of the risks, and his foolishness in partly ignoring them. The lure of the potential rewards had been too great, and his options not many. The notion of letting Will be gutted by an unrefined killer like Perkins disgusted Hannibal, and he could have hardly torn Perkins apart like he wanted in the presence of Will and the FBI. 

Most of all, Hannibal had been curious what Will would do.

Despite the discomfort and setbacks, Hannibal was wholly pleased with the turn of recent events. His eyes half-closed, he inhaled deeply, picking up the familiar scents of his bedroom. A new one had invaded the space - that of Will Graham, still lingering on the shirt Hannibal had worn earlier today. The flavour of Will's mouth was vivid in his memory, despite the kiss having been several hours ago. He certainly wouldn't mind more of it.

The doorbell rang, and Hannibal checked his watch. Will was indeed early, he saw. Early enough to sous chef, and perhaps leave time for other… activities as well. Hannibal smiled to himself, and went downstairs to get the door.

"Do come in, Will."


End file.
